Blood Ties
by iMuseD
Summary: What happens when one's memories, sense of belonging and space, are blurred and rewritten- by the wrong people? Frank, Joe, Fenton fight for their lives and the restoration of what was, in a case involving manipulations of the mind... UPDATED: 05/01/12
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi and Hello to anyone reading this! I contracted a severe case of writer's block over the summer and am currently exhibiting signs of senioritis (waaaah! I know). BUT I have managed to pull the broken pieces together (somewhat) and in a moment of inspiration wrote the following. Yes, I had to break away from my previous story, it was too stale - literary-wise - for me to disturb at the moment (but I will update it SOON). So without further ado...**

**Disclaimer: ('.') I don't own anything you recognize.**

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**- Elsewhere (Joe) -

A blonde-haird, blue-eyed seventeen year old watched a blue van drive by from the second floor of a clean, white Victorian home. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth slightly pouted, his forehead creased, as he struggled to remember something... or someone.

The blue van had pulled him into another episode of staring into space with a memory prodding the tender back of his mind, but unable to penetrate.

"What...?" he muttered. There was a quick knock on the door and he turned his head to greet his visitor. "Hi, mom."

"Hey, sweetie," the woman replied. "Dinner's ready."

Strangely, it pained him to look at her, but he set that thought aside and nodded.

"Be down in a minute," he told her. She smiled, something that always made him nervous, and whipped about to leave. Watching her leave, he noticed her dark brown hair, and a terrible feeling settled itself in his stomach. He looked down at his wrists. He couldn't remember the watch and bracelet he was supposed to have been wearing too tightly, the ones his mom had told him had caused the sore red lines that now decorated his wrists. He couldn't remember tripping over anything that would have caused the cactus to fall onto the crook of his arm and leave it with several small puncture holes. The terrible feeling squirmed and swelled. Something was not right here.

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- Elsewhere (Frank) -

It was pitch black.

He jerked at the restraints, cuffs with worn pads, that kept him flat on his back on the cot.

Vision throbbing in and out of focus, he slowly turned his head to one side and fought the bile and blood in his throat. He stared at the door, light from behind it giving it an eerie, blinding outline, but what terrified him more was what he couldn't see. He could feel the little holes that marked his left arm, could feel the drugs in his system, taking over everything he had grown to rely on-his senses, his logic, his instinct... his memory. He fought to keep the now pixelated images intact, but for every infinite second that passed, the pictures would break down even more. He could see a woman, brunette with silver lining, hands on her hips and her face one of playful skepticism. Aunt Gertrude, he thought. A woman, blonde with eyes that mirrored the sky.

"Mom," he croaked. He let his head fall to the other side, away from the light. A man, brunette like the older woman, with a firm jaw and a stern look about him offset only by the twinkle in his eye.

"Dad," he whispered tearily. A boy... He frowned. A boy...

"No!" he whispered in horror. Had he lost him already? "No!" he cried louder this time. Then it came to him. A boy, blonde with a mischievous air appeared in his mind's eye, and with it came the name he most dreaded to forget. He breathed in achingly and then slowly let it out, "Joe..."

* * *

- Hardy Residence -

Fenton Hardy stood up finally, knees popping and bed creaking with relief as he did so. He looked behind him to see the wrinkles that marked where he had been sitting on Frank's bed for the past several hours. The house was uncharacteristically quiet, and had been for... Fenton glanced at the calendar tacked to the wall by the desk. The last crossed out day was... two and a half weeks ago. Fenton stared absently at the familiar handwriting, imagining the characteristic determination of the hand. He started when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Laura stood forcibly straight and tired.

"The escorts are waiting," she said quietly. "Gertrude's already in the car. You know how she is with goodbyes and with everything that's going on..."

"It's alright, I understand." He gently took her hand. She gave a small choked laugh.

"I don't want to leave here, Fenton," she whispered and shook her head in disbelief. "I don't want to leave you. Why I let you talk me into going to your mother's -I can't..."

Fenton cupped her cheek and they held each other's gaze.

"Because you trust me to get our boys back safe, and I trust you to keep safe while I do it," he told her. "I won't lose any of you."

"I know," she took his hand from her face and rubbed her forehead a little before looking at her bags waiting in the doorway. "Carry my stuff down for me?"

He gave a silent nod, not trusting himself to say anymore, and slowly followed her out.

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- Elsewhere (Frank) -

"Are we going to behave now, Lance?"

The dark-haired teen stirred and opened his eyes, bloodshot and unfocused.

"Answer me, Lance. You know how much daddy hates to repeat himself, Lance... Lance!"

The eyes had shut and now shot open again, fighting the drug still, but much more weakly now.

"Daddy..." the boy rasped finally. "can go screw-" A heavy hand shot forward and grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to face his captor. Then the grip on his chin disappeared. He was about to let out a deep breath when the man suddenly wrapped his calloused hands around Frank's tender neck. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of a man in his late forties and the wheezy attempts at breathing of the figure on the cot. Frank felt his heart hammering in his chest, his entire body trembling, struggling to avail of, at the very least, the musty air that shared the boy's prison. The man smirked, tightening his hold until the boy's lips tinged blue.

"You're lucky you're so valuable to them, otherwise..." he let the boy go with a jerk. "Bye bye, Lance." Frank didn't move, just lay there, breathing through his mouth haphazardly, and choking.

"You should embrace it, Lance. It is real, it is good. It'll stop hurting if you stop fighting and just accept... who you are. Lance. Lance. Lance. Remember that for next visit. Otherwise..."

His captor watched as something in the hazel eyes died, reminding him of a candle's flame when snuffed, and waited until the dulled orbs succumbed to the needling darkness before leaving with a scowl.

* * *

- Elsewhere (Joe) -

"James, dear, why haven't you touched your food?"

The boy being addressed looked up from his plate and gave a well-rehearsed yawn, so realistic as to make his blue eyes water even. "Sorry," he said, putting up a hand to cover his mouth. "I'm actually more sleepy than hungry at the moment."

"Oh?" the man seated at the head of the table interjected. "Did this afternoon's football practice wear you out?"

What football practice? James thought edgily. It was frustrating not being able to remember anything that he'd done since he woke up from his nap in his room an hour or two ago. But he smiled and nodded his head.

"Yeah."

He was excused and then carefully walked to his room, all the while fighting the urge to run.

He collapsed onto his bed, stared at the ceiling, and then absently lifted up a hand as if to touch it. He eyed his left arm and discovered a scar that began at the base of his wrist and came just short of the middle of his forearm. How come I never noticed this before? He mused, fingering the abused line of flesh. It was old, seeing as it was so faint, and the tingling sensation returned to the back of his mind, screaming one name: _Frank_.

_9 years ago..._

_"Joe! Dad is so going to kill you when he finds out!" An anxious brown-eyed dark-haired boy gently prodded an equally anxious blue-eyed blonde boy._

_The blonde, one or two inches smaller, looked up at him pleadingly._

_"You won't tell him will you, Frank?" he asked in a small voice. The other boy sighed heavily and shook his head._

_"We have to tell him, otherwise he'll just find out and we'll end up in even more trouble," Frank explained gently. "Besides, it's kind of hard to cover up." He nodded at Joe's arm, which was bleeding from a cut._

_"I'm sorry, Frank," Joe said tearily. "Dad's study is locked- I thought I could reach it-"_

_"It's alright little bro, now you're just making me mad. Quit blaming yourself and apologizing. I should have kept a better eye on you. Just promise me no more Mr. Fantastic stunts? If the ball breaks a window, especially the one in dad's study, don't try to reach through and grab it, because one, you can't and won't reach it and two, this'll happen." Again he indicated Joe's cut. "Now, let's go get you cleaned up. The least we can do is look presentable at trial." He was teasing, but Joe couldn't help but imagine their father with a gavel and a grave face. He gulped and nervously looked up at Frank who smiled at him reassuringly._

_"Don't worry about it too much. Who knows? Maybe if you put on those puppy dog eyes Auntie falls for so much, we might actually be let off the hook."_

_"Yeah," Joe lit up mischievously, all worry gone from his face. He wrapped his good arm around his brother's waist and hugged with all his might. "Thanks, Frank."_

_"Hey," he heard his brother whisper. "anytime, little bro. Partners in crime, you and me."_

'James' bolted upright.

Frank, he thought, letting the name roll pleasantly unsaid in his mouth before... "Frank."

That's when it struck him, his memory resurrected.

My name is Joe Hardy and I am being held here against my will, he thought with terror.

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**TBA**

**A/N (cntd.) : BTW, if you don't know me by now let it be known that I have certain preferences, one of them being Frank over Joe. Sorry to all the Joe lovers out there! I just wanted to let you know before you get any further into this that it will be more on a Frank-centric side :)  
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**Happy Readings everyone!**

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**A/N: I decided against posting a whole other chapter for this next part because it reads so much better just adding it after the first; lots of flashbacks, you see.**

**Haven't gotten much response yet -as expected, really- but thank you to those who alerted and favorit-ed! Alas! I see that I'll have to work harder to lure in more of you... enjoy...**

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- Hardy Residence -

Fenton sighed heavily as he seated himself behind the sturdy oak desk that had inhabited his study since before Frank's birth and made years even before his own. He patted it contemplatively before letting his fingers rest on one of the files that littered the surface. It was well-worn and creased, evidence of every night he had so far spent reviewing every page held within, searching for any clue as to where his sons may be. He was exhausted, beyond anxious, and guilty, knowing that his last words to the two of them had been full of anger.

_Eighteen Days Ago_

_Frank paced up and down in his father's study while Joe stood, rigid and with fists curled._

_"We can't just stand here doing nothing, dad," Joe said through gritted teeth. He was jumping at the opportunity to nab some bad guys. "Let me and Frank go, we can handle ourselves." He glared at Frank for support, who obligingly stopped and looked pointedly at his father. It was clear, though, that Fenton had no intention of letting them go this time._

_"There's no point in putting yourselves in unnecessary danger, you boys will stay here, and that is final," he told them firmly. "We've done what we can, now let the local authorities handle the rest."_

_"This is out of their jurisdiction," Frank spoke up calmly. "They shouldn't-"_

_"Oh, for once, won't you just do as I tell you?" Fenton said in exasperation._

_"We always do, and I'm starting to think that that's the problem," Joe said angrily._

_"I can't have you boys out there, not this time," Fenton remained firm._

_"Please, dad," Frank appealed gently. "We've been working this case for what? Two, three months now? We can't just let other people finish for us, we never have, and we are definitely not going to start now."_

_"We are not talking about smugglers, and petty thieves here. This is-"_

_"This is imprisonment! What you're doing? Involuntary detainment! You have to let us-" Joe cried._

_"No, it's much too risky, and from a father's perspective your safety comes before duty. I won't let you!"_

_"More like you won't trust us to take care of ourselves!"_

_"Hate me all you want for this but I'm not changing my mind."_

_"You trained us for this! Have seen us off to worse situations, and then now, all of a sudden, you-"_

_"Enough!" Frank interjected, putting up a hand. There was a slight pause before he turned to his brother. "He's right, Joe. We needn't chance it." With a brief nod to his father, he stalked up to his room just before giving Joe an expectant glance. His brother caught on and after giving his father a look of disappointment he hurried up after Frank._

_The next day found both of their rooms empty, one particularly chilled by an open window._

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_- _Elsewhere (Joe)-

Joe's body tensed as the door to his room swung open. It was a little past nine thirty in the evening and as usual, someone came up to check on him, usually his 'father.' The noise of the other's breathing was brief, and then came the sound of the door shutting and the lock being turned. As usual, Joe thought not too glumly; their predictability was working in his favor. He'd had to play possum before, pretending to be asleep now wasn't hard. Next, escape. Joe nimbly rolled out of bed, careful to make as little noise as possible. Crouching down, he made his way quickly toward his window. As soon as his fingers gripped the wood and his palm flattened against the glass of the window to ease it open, he was struck with- Deja vu, Joe thought suddenly, his mind slipping briefly from the present.

_Eighteen Days Ago_

_Joe shook his brother gently. He had successfully gotten out of his room and into his brother's without waking anyone. That was the easy part. Now, he had to convince..._

_"Frank," Joe hissed urgently. He didn't have to wait long before Frank turned in his bed to face him._

_"No." the voice was muffled, Frank being still buried in his covers._

_"You don't even know what I'm about to say! Or ask!" protested the younger Hardy._

_"Whatever it is, and I have a pretty good idea what it is, the answer is still no."_

_"So you agree with what dad said? You think we should lay off the rest of the case, the very case we pratically solved ourselves, and just hand it over on a silver platter to middle-aged men in uniform who would be more than happy to take the credit for all our hard work?"_

_"No."_

_"No you don't agree or-"_

_"Both. Listen, Joe, we are not stepping a foot in Doyle's direction," Frank said, finally throwing off the covers to glare at his brother. "Besides, let the 'middle-aged men in uniform' do the leg work for once, who knows, maybe this way they'll remember how to do their jobs. Might as well give ourselves a break, too. I sure could use it, and from the looks of it, so could you."_

_Joe felt a pang of guilt at that. By the moonlight he could easily see the heavy shading under his brother's eyes, hair reaching out in all directions, a rasp that screamed for relief, very uncharacteristic for Frank save for when they were working on a serious case. Still, Joe's stubborness had Joe insisting._

_"Remember that time when we were little, when I broke one of the windows to dad's study and we decided to tell him... and get in trouble together? Remember what you told me?"_

_"Joe, not again. You know that's not fair, I was nine and you're taking what I said completely out of context!" Frank groaned, putting a hand to his forehead in exasperation. Ignoring his protest, Joe went on._

_"'Partners in crime.' That's what you told me we were."_

_"We're not doing it, Joe."_

_"Are you denying-"_

_"Joe!" Frank's voice was edged with the beginnings of anger. An angry brother was a rare sight for Joe and after those first few times he'd preferred to keep it that way. The younger Hardy immediately changed tactic._

_"Fine. I'm more than willing to compromise. We go now we can at the very least check and see how the stakeout is going."_

_Frank eyed him warily. "You really think it's worth sneaking out, against dad's orders might I add, to watch people watch other people?"_

_"Who are you and what have you done to my brother? He'd be itching to get out and wrap this mess up once and for all!" That earned Joe a pillow to the face. There was a slight pause before his brother spoke again._

_"Take care of the window while I get dressed," Frank mumbled as he dragged himself from the bed. Joe grinned at his brother's back and ran over to open the window. As he eased it open he couldn't help but whisper into the waiting night, "Oh, yeah, bad guys here we come!"_

Joe felt his chest tighten at the memory. Thoughts of Frank had occupied whatever nook and cranny in his mind that his plans for escape had not. He remembered fighting with his father, sneaking out with Frank, shadowing the police on stakeout, confronting Doyle... and clearest of all, the image of Frank unconscious in the arms of two menacing strangers, and his own voice screaming for his older brother as they were dragged apart. He lifted himself over and out of the window, biting back tears. I'll find you, Frank, Joe vowed silently as his feet hit the ground, just hold on for me, wherever you are.

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- Elsewhere (Frank) -

"Lance."

Eyelids opened and shut, giving the room's two other occupants a peek at glassy, brown eyes. One of them, 'Daddy,' stooped down to give the young man on the cot a few firm slaps on the cheek.

"Lance!" he hissed. The boy's eyes open and shut,a small hint of awareness toward his two visitors. 'Daddy' grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly until the other man placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"How much did you give him?" the other man queried.

"I followed orders down to the tee. I don't understand why it hasn't manifested-"

"You know how important this one is to our organization," the other man went on with a steel edge to his tone. "I thought I had given him to the right man."

"Listen, Mr. Doyle, I did everything right. It's the kid, he's fighting the drug, fighting me!"

"Tom, he's Fenton Hardy's son, one shouldn't expect otherwise."

Silence.

"What happened to his neck?"

"He got a little uncontrollable."

"In those restraints? And drugged up to his eyeballs?"

"Like you said, sir, he's a Hardy brat."

Silence.

"P-Please... just l-let... me... g-go... p-please..." rasped the tortured boy from beneath them.

Doyle knelt, leveling his eyes with the cot, and leaned forward until his breath tickled Frank's ear.

"What's the matter, my boy?

"I... I..." Frank stammered, the desire to convey even a fraction of the pain he was in clashing hard with his inability to do so properly. He shut his eyes, swallowing repeatedly. "P-pain. T-too. Much."

"I see..." Doyle spared a glance at Tom, who stood by with a face set in a sneer. "What happened? Can you remember?"

"H-him. Y-you. Did. This." Frank sobbed angrily, shaking his head. "I c-can't r-remember. But y-you. Y-you..." By now, Frank's body was trembling uncontrollably, with fear, pain, exhaustion, he couldn't tell anymore. Maybe it was a combination of all three. "H-hurt. P-people. Children!"

Doyle allowed himself a small, amused smile. "Lance-"

"N-not. Lance. Frank Hardy," Frank whispered, more to himself than to them. "M-my name is F-Frank Hardy."

Doyle persisted. "Lance, believe me, this is for your own good. You're not thinking straight right now, the medication you're being given will make things clearer. Lance?"

Frank's eyes had been blinking slowly, had even shut for a few seconds. Please let this all just be a bad dream, Frank thought pleadingly. Just a bad dream...

"Where's m-my brother? W-where's Joe?" Frank demanded, jolted awake at the thought of his brother possible undergoing a similar torture. The Doyle and Tom exchanged glances before returning their gazes toward Frank, this time a steely glint in their eyes.

"Keep to the administration schedule. I don't want him becoming fully lucid, I expect him disoriented at all times. He's been working with his father and brother on us. He knows how our operation works, and he's a little older than what we're used to dealing with," Doyle mused. "It makes it whole lot harder to make him think what we want him to think, and especially when he knows that's exactly what we'll be doing."

"Fine, so I drug him into next week. Then what?"

"No, not next week. I'll have him and his brother relocated in two days' time."

"Seperately, I hope? One's enough of a pain, for sure. And somewhere south?"

"Somewhere they won't ever be a bother to anyone, anywhere, ever again."

Frank couldn't hold back a relieved sob. So Joe was still alive at least. But for how long? The thought of his brother was Frank's last as he slipped once again into unconsciousness.

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**A/N: Mwah hah hah! Cliffy! Short and sweeeet.  
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**We writers don't write only so we can, for fun, read our stories back to ourselves, this is for YOU! So, please, please, review! Critique! Be mean (totally optional)! Comment! It will be very much appreciated. :)**

**TBA  
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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed, alerted, and favorit-ed! Been busy with life, what can I say? I had this written already, but couldn't find time to post it. Next chapter's finished also, but for now, Enjoy!**

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- Hardy Residence (Fenton) -

"Arthur King Doyle... age 48... formerly a school counselor at Wendell Brown College Preparatory... wife Elaine Atkins-Doyle ... daughter Kristin Doyle deceased... son Kenneth Doyle deceased... victims of automobile accident..." Fenton paused, pulling one of the pictures that had been tucked in between the files within the folder. For what may well have been the hundredth time, Fenton ran a calloused thumb over the smiling face of a fourteen-year-old Kenneth Doyle, taken only months before the accident. The first time he had seen it, it had shocked him. He had immediately reached for one of the framed photos that bordered the front of his desk, subtle reminders of the real reason he was at home and not meant to be sitting behind the desk at all. The frame held in it a photo of Frank at fifteen, lean and looking wiser than his years, the bright curiosity and confidence in his eyes dancing a ritual that was liable to both impress and intimidate. And that's before he has even said anything, Fenton mused achingly, knowing Frank's words were just as paralyzing when he wanted to be. Fenton realized with dread that he had been staring at Kenneth's photo as he thought of Frank. He couldn't help himself, he supposed. The two boys, after all, might as well have been the same person; each was the spitting image of the other.

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- Elsewhere (Joe) -

Joe sat staring out of a bus window. It was raining out, not too un-reflective of how Joe was feeling at the moment. He couldn't bring himself to remember where, which city, town, he had left; all that mattered was where he was heading now. Home. Bayport. He couldn't let himself be too happy about that though, not when he had no idea where Frank. His heart was beating achingly; he wanted to get on Frank's trail immediately, but he wasn't in the right state of mind yet. Not with what they were pumping me up with, Joe thought grimly. Besides that, he couldn't do it alone; he needed his father. Joe couldn't get the last image he had of his brother out of his head... he wanted him back... He could hope, he could wish, pray with every ounce of faith he was pretty sure he still had, but he was simply too exhausted. And so he forced himself to sit in as mindless a state possible.

The bus made the Bayport stop several hours later. He had been awake, but barely conscious the entire trip. Awake and conscious, he thought grimly as he stepped off the bus, there's a difference people, believe you me. He looked around, taking it all in, and then felt a tug in his gut. Now, being in more familiar territory only served as an even bigger, more painful reminder of what he was missing. He half-expected to turn around and see Frank two steps behind him. Have to touch base first, Joe told himself reluctantly, that's the sure thing, and Frank always goes for the sure thing. Quickly, he noted the street signs to reorient himself, hands tucked, shoulders shrugged as if reaching to shelter his head from the falling wetness, and stalked off in the direction of home.

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- (Doyle) -

So Joe Hardy has escaped, Doyle thought to himself as he sat in his oak-paneled study. He eyed the man and woman in front of him with disappointment clear in the creases of his forehead and in the tightening of his lips and jaws.

"Everything was fine, I don't understand what could have happened to undo what we-"

"Save your breath, Alice, the other Hardy brother has proven equally... difficult," he shook his head. "They're pretty much an all-around obstacle."

"But you still have him?"

"Yes, it was the least that Tom could ensure."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"That won't bring the boy back will it now?"

Silence.

"That is all, I suppose. I trust you can walk yourselves out?"

Silent nods and a quick exit.

Arthur Doyle sighed loudly before standing up and leaving the study as well. A hallway and two flights of stairs down later, he stood before the dark basement. He could see the fevered teen from the doorway, and sighed to himself again before approaching.

"Lance," he whispered, kneeling by the creaking cot. "Lance..." Frank Hardy opened his eyes slowly, leaning his head in the direction of the sound. The restraints tightened and the cot groaned as the boy shifted, and even in the dim light Doyle caught a glimpse of wrists rubbed sore and bleeding.

"N-not," gritted the teen.

"Not Lance?" Doyle inquired innocently.

"Frank. F-Frank. Frank H-Hardy," replied Frank through gritted teeth and eyes barely opened.

There was a long pause filled only with Frank's small struggle to stay awake and Doyle's indifference slowly gave way to what seemed like... concern.

"After the drug failed, I thought I could go through with it. See you off, see you dead. You are after all the son of the man I most respect, most fear... most hate," his voice cracked with frustration, and his head fell forward as if exhausted by his own pent up anger. Frank squinted his eyes repeatedly, barely grasping any meaning of the words being spoken to him.

"You were an irritation. _Hardy Boys. _ Pah! A thorn in my side! That's all you ever were until... I saw you... That's when I realized, that's when it hit me. Ha! Fate has a sense of humor, let me tell you." A clipped laugh stabbed at the space between them.

"W-what..." Frank began, confused.

"Kenneth," Doyle said in a hushed as he looked back at the boy. He raised a hand tentatively, and then slowly, with trembling fingers, stroked Frank's brow. It both surprised and frightened Frank to see this sudden a change in a man who had earlier been so eager to see him suffer.

"D-don't... t-touch me!" Frank snarled, in his mind jerking his head away but in reality only managing to rock his head back a little before it fell right back into Doyle's waiting hand. The man cupped his face tenderly for a few moments before gently letting his head back down and instead began running his fingers through Frank's dark locks. Through wet, glassy eyes Frank could see him smiling and felt sickened.

"I'll get you back Kenneth, I promise," the man whispered.. "I'll leave this all behind for you, for us."

"P-please," Frank was worried now. "I d-don't want... Just. Let. Me. Go. I w-want to g-go home. P-please..." The corners of his eyes felt wet and he felt his face flush with shame at his weakness.

"My boy," the man's smile softened. "You already are."

* * *

- Hardy Residence -

Fenton nodded as he spoke. "Alright, thanks for checking Sam... Yeah, I'll be sure to call you again if something substantial comes up... I know... Well, you know, coping... It's hard... *clears throat*... Really hard... I keep hearing them and expecting them to walk in at any moment... Yeah, I know... *coughs*... I hope so too... Alright, I'll see you soon, Sam, thanks again." He replaced the receiver and sighed heavily, berating himself for almost losing it. He waited for the wetness in his eyes to dry, composing himself, before returning to his desk and letting himself fall into his chair.

He glanced at the clock. Seven til ten. He could hear it raining outside, a long, hushed applause. He eyed the curtained windows and then smiled a little.

_9 years ago_

_"I should've been watching him more carefully," Frank said, conviction as evident in his voice as it was in his eyes, which more often than not, would be focused on Joe in silent apology. "I'm sorry."_

_"No, it was my fault! I broke the window! I broke it, not him! And I scratched myself, not him!" Joe, with all the urgency of an eight year old. "Please don't get mad at Frank, he didn't do anything."_

_There was a slight pause as Fenton struggled to compose himself, amused._

_"I appreciate your honesty, Joey," he told them, smiling inwardly at the look of relief on Joe's face at the sound the endearment. "And your owning up to your mistakes, the both of you."_

_Some of the anxiety dissipated in the boys' postures and expression, Fenton could swear Frank was half-grinning. Then Joe was standing stock still, uncertain of where the discussion would ultimately lead- warning or punishment?_

_"I could think of some sort of disciplinary measure..." Fenton thought out loud, making Joe's baby blues to widen ever so slightly, guiltier than ever. "But that isn't going to fix our window, is it?"_

_Frank perked up a little as an idea occurred to him, "Dad, I'll pay for it, I've been saving up-"_

_"No, Frank," his father said quickly. "That's not how run things in this household."_

_Shoulders slumped visibly and the boys anticipated their sentencing with a shared glance. "Besides, what you boys have done has shown me everything I needed to or will ever know," Fenton sighed, but his quiet joy was mistaken for steep disappointment._

_"Dad, Joey and I... we're really sorry. It won't happen again."_

_"No, Frank, we're going to the hardware store now to get that window fixed. I want you boys to look at that window and never ever... forget this moment."_

_The boys looked at him quietly and guiltily._

_"The moment where you boys learned to put the other before himself, and had each other's back without prompt, question, or hesitation." Fenton finished. "I wanted to grow old knowing you boys will look out for each other, keep safe, and smart." He was half-smiling, half-stern as he looked at Frank and then at Joe, pointedly. "And I saw just that today." There was a slight pause as the boys recovered from the ex-lecture's sudden turn. Then Frank smiled fondly at Joe, ruffling his hair, and receiving in turn a toothy grin and a playful shove of protest._

_"Well, I guess I've got my work cut out for me, Dad. Joe's a magnet for trouble!" Frank whined half-heartedly._

_"Hey! Am not. I'm just..."_

_"It's alright, Joe, your brother's only teasing."_

_"But it's true! He's got some obsessive-compulsive-hyper-curiosity disorder that gets him into-"_

_"Which is why you're going to be there for him. Always. Right, Frank?"_

_Frank stopped his rant, still grinning knowingly, and nodded. "'Course, dad."_

_"And I've got your back, Frank!" Joe squealed launching himself onto his brother's trouser-clad leg._

_"Piece of cake for you then, huh, Joe?" his brother told him._

_"Come on, boys. Let's get to that store and get that window fixed before your mother gets home and then we'll really be in trouble."_

Nine years ago, Fenton would never really have imagined the situation becoming what it was at present. The boys following in his stead, venturing into the realm of crime fighting... He could not, for the life of him, recall when he'd ever handed down to them, that particular torch. Then again, he could not imagine them being anything than what they had become, and he smiled quietly to himself. The ringing of his cell snapped him out of his reverie and he leaned to one side to fish it out of his pocket. The ringing ended, however, as he snapped the phone open. The screen told him it was an unknown caller. Fenton sighed and shoved the cell deep into his pocket, annoyed his quiet reflections were so boldly interrupted and for no good reason. Then there was the sound of the doorbell and slow rapping on the front door.

* * *

- Elsewhere (Frank) -

"I d—don't even l—ook like him," Frank gritted. Doyle had been flaunting photo after photo of his dead son, pointing out details that were as general as Kenneth's style of dress all the way down to the particulars, favorite baseball cap, how he tied his shoelaces. He was crouched down in front of Frank, who was sitting up in a chair, secured at the wrists, shoulders, waist, and ankles by plastic zip ties. Doyle stood up, placed the photos on the metal table next to the chair. They had been at this for only an hour or so and, though he never expected the boy to be easy to break, it was not as fun as he expected it would be. He crossed his arms, sleeves rolled up, and surveyed the sagging form in the chair in front of him. He was inwardly annoyed at how he had to do everything himself, but he did enjoy a challenge. And if it meant making his wife happy again, he'd do whatever it took.

"But you do," Doyle replied lightly.

"Well, he l—looks n—nothing like you."

"_You_ take after your mother mostly, what can I say," the man shrugged. "Pop quiz, your mother's name?" He casually picked up an item from the table.

"My m—mother's name… Laura."

"Wrong answer, son." Frank was immediately reacquainted with pain, this time centered just below his collarbone and just above his heart, where the cattle prod Doyle had picked up was pressed. Frank breathed in sharply as Doyle pulled away, blinking away the spots in his vision.

"Elaine, Elaine, Elaine. Remember that now, it's important. Now, what about you, son, your name?" It chilled Frank to hear the man so calm, so collected, in spite of the fact that he was mercilessly indoctrinating Frank, a perverse notion of bringing his dead son back to some semblance of life. It sickened Frank to see a father so far gone over the edge because of the death of his children, and it occurred to him suddenly what Fenton might do if in the hands of this lunatic Frank were to _die_… No. There was no comparison. Arthur King Doyle was a nut, and Fenton Hardy was… _not a nut_. Frank grimaced inwardly, unable to think coherently, but his resolve was somewhat strengthened.

"F—Frank H—Hardy! How many t—times—Guh!" Frank jerked in his seat as Doyle applied again and again the cattle prod that he had been using on Frank for the past hour, for the nth time. The man pulled the prod away from his thigh and clucked.

"I thought you understood the rules," Doyle said, gentle and fatherly. He prodded Frank in the shoulder, who yelled out hoarsely.

"I unders-s-s-stand them perfectly you s—sick fu—" He yelped as the prod came in contact with his neck, and he tried to jerk away.

"Tsk, tsk, language, my boy, language."

"I am n—not your b—boy," Frank snarled, spots haphazardly blotting his vision. _I can hold out, I can. Pain, psshht, please, no contest. No contest. All just mind over matter. Just have to stay awake. It doesn't hurt. So don't pass out. Don't. Don't pass out. _Frank was mentally pulling himself in, creating a barrier between his physical and mental self. But the prod was effective in keeping the two firmly welded together, and when it kissed his cheek, the mind-over-matter-Hoover-of-a-dam he had built against the pain collapsed all together. He screamed, unable to help himself, and tears carved their way down his face, stinging as they slid over the sensitized cheek.

Doyle was about to touch him in the neck with the cattle prod when Frank let hysteria take over.

"Stop, s—stop, stop, please, stop, p—please!" The prod froze in midair, half an inch from his skin.

"Okay, but only if you tell me what you name is." Doyle didn't move the prod any closer, but he didn't take it away either. "Your real name."

"O-okay, I'll p-play your gam-m-me," he rasped. "L-Lance, yeah? T-that how daddy l-likes it?" He finished in mock sincerity, having a brief, foggy flashback to one of his sessions with Doyle's thug.

Doyle's only response was to prod first Frank's shoulder, then his abdomen, until Frank was shaking too much to be able to open his eyes and allow the accumulated tears to fall. The electrifying touches, the tears, and stifled screams went on for a few minutes before Frank was pleading for Doyle to stop.

"A mere name for some much needed respite. Necessities never fail to make their selves known, you know. I promise this will all be over... if you just tell me your name, my boy."

Frank didn't respond, couldn't. He saw movement in his peripheral focus-shifting, world-tilting vision and couldn't stop himself from flinching; Doyle chuckled. He put a hand on Frank's trembling arm.

"Come, just say it. The harder you think, the harder it will be to accept."

Frank couldn't look up, couldn't find the strength or energy. For how long he had been at the mercy of Doyle and his cronies, he couldn't tell. Where and how his brother was faring- he'd happily trade in for his own cooperation with Doyle for such answers, but the offer never crossed the proverbial table. Doyle never mentioned Joe, in name or otherwise. He was too busy molding Frank into Kenneth. Kenneth, Kenneth, Kenneth, Kenneth. The name was heavy on Frank's tongue as he spoke, a great numbness began to seep into his body as well as his mind.

"Your name?" The grip on his arm tightened. Lips trembling, knees aching, body stabbed with pain in places-never had two syllables been so hard to get out.

"K-Ken-n-neth. My n-name is K-Kenneth."

* * *

**A/N: Oh, dear. You guys thinking what I'm thinking? Let's find out next chapter…**

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

- Hardy Residence (Joe) -

As Joe traversed Elm Street and saw what he knew to be his father's study in the distance, lit, warmer than he was, and inviting, he was surprised to taste salt from the wet trickling into his panting mouth. He didn't realize he was crying until he had stepped onto their front porch. Not sparing time to shake the rain off himself, he rang the bell, pressed himself against the door as his knees were threatening to give way, and slowly raised a fist to rap on the door. Footsteps, and then the door swung open.

The sight of his father standing there, although uncharacteristically disheveled, deep-eyed, and somewhat stooped, was so great a promise of safety, love, and comfort, that Joe might have collapsed in relief had not his father quickly stepped forward to embrace him. Joe attempted returning the same ferocity, the same sentiment-tried to get his arms around Fenton-but gave up in exhaustion and simply let himself be held.

"Dad..." he choked. He couldn't tell if his father replied or sobbed or both, but when Fenton finally stepped back without letting go, he realized his father was indeed crying. "Dad," Joe said, realizing he would be losing his father's attention in less than a moment. "Dad!"

But Fenton couldn't spare Joe another minute; he had, after all, two sons.

It pained Joe to see his father's eyes quickly sweep the space behind and beside him, the porch, the path leading up to it, the street... before finally settling on Joe again. Wizened eyes gazed at his son with doubt and surety, but Fenton could only bear to voice the former.

"Joe, your brother...? Frank?"

"He's... He and I were separated, Dad. I... I don't know where he is." Joe could feel the tingling in his eyes intensify, felt the tears stream down his face to join their sisters in the puddle at his feet.

"I don't understand; the two of you left together—"

"I know, Dad… I'll explain everything inside."

* * *

- Elsewhere (Frank) -

Frank forced his eyes open. He hadn't wanted to wake so soon and have to acknowledge the bruises and sores that had his body trembling with persistent pain. His mind strayed to the inevitable as flashbacks of hours earlier came and flooded him with terror and disbelief. He couldn't believe that was over… couldn't believe he had actually, somehow, survived it.

He shook his head inwardly to ward off such thoughts and focused instead on the ticking of the large, ornate clock in his newest prison. The same wall that hosted the clock was lined with shelves littered with trophies, books, and small comic figurines. And, Frank knew, four-year-old dust. He had seen the printed name on the door as he had been dragged in earlier. Kenneth. Kenneth, who had died four years ago. Kenneth, whose life he was being forced to continue living. Kenneth. Kenneth. Kenneth. The name was still chanted in his head, a litany, as a small part of him readily and desperately surrendered to Doyle's imposition. _Not Doyle. Dad,_ said-small-part corrected. A larger part of him had him shaking his head. _No._ _Never_, he argued. Fenton's face, frustrated but comfortingly familiar, floated before his mind's eye. It was the last he had seen of his father, and it hurt him to know that they had separated on such bitter terms. What hurt even more was what Frank had had to admit to since… that he had willingly traded in his identity for that of a madman's deceased fourteen-year-old son. He could argue, in his defense, that he had done it only to fool Doyle with success. He could argue that he was buying time for his escape. He could argue that it was a small sacrifice to make in the face of such painful and… electrifying… consequences. But deep down, and even that small part of him would admit, it all amounted to one thing: weakness.

He was weak. He hadn't endured the pain without having given in even just a little. _And cue the tears_, yet another part of him mocked as his vision blurred. Frank cleared his throat, unconsciously fisting the blankets of the bed he was earlier laid upon, as he struggled not to further indulge in _weakness_ by crying.

Especially when they were watching, he added, glancing at the blinking red light situated in one corner of the room. Looking around tiredly, it surprised him how much the room comforted him, even in his present situation. The movie posters on the wall, the model planes that patrolled the ceiling, and the familiarity in what book titles he could read from where he lay, reminded him much of his own childhood. Not that that was too long ago, Frank chided.

Then the door was swinging open and Frank found himself tensing as Doyle entered the room.

* * *

- Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe) -

"We snuck out through Frank's window," Joe began as father and son sat in Fenton's study. "We biked to the bus stop, rode over to Doyle's neighborhood—we weren't going to do anything more than observe." He looked up at his father, eyes wet. "I promised him."

"It's not your fault, Joe. You know your brother would never do anything he wouldn't want to—not to mention, you can get pretty persuasive," Fenton reassured him, putting a hand on his son's trembling shoulder. Concern struck him immediately. "Joe, we should continue this after you wash up and change into something dry, warm."

Joe shook his head, his breath violent and his voice wavering.

"No, I might forget everything again. I don't— I don't want to forget again!" Fenton couldn't entirely make sense of what Joe was saying and, for the moment, pulled his son in for a hug. Joe didn't feel his father's fingers gripping his shoulders, hear his father's soothing voice, feel his father pull him into a tight hug until he heard his father mumble Frank's name.

"Frank needs us, needs _you_, to be okay first, Joe. We will get him back."

"My fault, Dad. If I hadn't insisted…"

"Get that hot shower, young man; wash that ridiculous idea out of your head. You are not to blame. If anything, I shouldn't have tried to edge you two out of the investigation…"

"Stop it, Dad," Joe sniffed, trying to smile a little. "Starting to sound like you could use a hot shower, too." Fenton returned the smile shakily, unconvinced, but seeing the exhaustion in his son's expression could not bring himself to push the matter further.

"You're right, I just might. Playing the blame game won't help anyone."

"Dad, where's Mom?" Joe pulled away from his father to look around, for a moment looking every bit as vulnerable as the child Fenton knew he no longer was… no longer could be.

"She's at grandma's," he answered. "On my insistence, of course. She wanted to be here for you, but I…"

Joe nodded understandingly.

"I won't be long," he said, standing up slowly. He looked at his father pointedly before leaving the room. "And I won't forget anything."

Still confused about the statement, but knowing Joe needed the comfort of a hot shower—and perhaps later Fenton could steer him into bed for, at the very least, a nap—more than he needed the discomfort of an interrogation on recent events, he nodded assuredly.

"Joe… I know you won't, son. I know you won't."

* * *

- Elsewhere (Frank) -

Frank pulled out of the grips of the two men angrily. The two stepped back in relief, not wanting to add to the matching bruises they had on their faces from the youth's struggling. Doyle held up the syringe, making sure it was empty before tucking it into his breast pocket. Not a word had been spoken since Doyle and his thugs had entered the room and proceeded to dose him with something, and Frank was more than happy to keep things that way. With his luck, however, Doyle would likely want to play mind games when the drug was most effective—not that that meant much in relation to the Hardy boy's willfulness.

The man waved the two musclemen out and turned his attention to Frank, who was eyeing him with quiet ferocity.

"Kenneth," Doyle said tentatively, hoping futilely for the hostility in those brown eyes to die down. It did not.

Frank couldn't find his voice for a moment after hearing the name. He had almost forgotten that he was supposed to be someone else now; the small-surrendered-part of him pinched himself in reproach.

"Kenneth," Doyle repeated, it was obvious now that he was expecting an answer… the right answer. Every fiber of Frank's being save one was screaming out snide remarks, comments that would jab at the man's pride and pomp, words to uphold the famous Hardy grit and have Aunt Gertrude's toes curling in on themselves with their crudeness. But the one fiber protested, conjuring images of his ordeal and setting his body's throbbing to a frequency painful enough to mar logic, reason, pride, and ignite a flight response. Frank couldn't trust himself to speak, or make a choice with his vision fading in and out of focus, his body creaking, his ears having suffered the constant hum of silence, and with the mere knowledge that something foreign was running through his veins was pitting him against himself.

"Kenneth!" Doyle snapped Frank out of his reverie, one he never realized he was in until that moment.

"W-what n-now…?" the youth managed to ease out. His fingers were tingling in his left arm and he realized he was sitting on it. With agonizing slowness, he shifted his body right to free it, all the while glaring at the man sitting at the foot of his bed.

"How are you feeling?" Doyle asked him, ignoring the attitude and, to Frank's dismay, looking every bit the concerned father that he imagined himself to be. Frank's frustration about his situation intensified._ Doubt he really cares how I feel. He really wants to ask, 'how are you thinking?' He wants me to Think different. Think that I am not who I am. That's what he wants isn't it? That's why he won't let me go home. I want to go home… I just want to go home. __**But… you are home, remember? He just wants to know if you're okay. Tell him you're okay. Tell him. Tell Dad you're okay. Don't want him to worry.**_ Frank opened his mouth to reply, but his thoughts were doing the talking for him at the moment.

"Kenneth…" Doyle was eyeing him curiously.

_He keeps calling me that. Tell him to stop calling me that. __**NO! Remember the last time you did that? Don't you remember? **__It doesn't matter what I remember, just that I don't forget.__** Don't forget who?**__ My parents. Laura and Fenton. __**Don't forget who? **__Joe.__** Who?**__ Joe, my brother. Joe. __**Who? Don't forget who?**__I just want to go home.__** You are home, remember?**__**Remember? **__Mom, Dad, Joe. __**No, don't remember that. Them. It hurts. Remember? They hurt. Remember that. **_Frank squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his lips together, and calmed his breathing, which had involuntarily grown rapid and hoarse.

When he opened them, Doyle was watching him expectantly.

"Kenneth, son, how are you feeling?" Leaning forward in what Frank now believed to be genuine concern, albeit for what exactly he wasn't sure, he placed a warm hand on Frank's bent knee.

The touch was unnerving to say the least, and a shudder ran through the youth. His heart pounding, he finally shook his head. Breathing deep to keep from stuttering too much, his body tingling with a morbid anxiety, his mind reeling with the effects of the drug, Frank Hardy shook his head again and looked Doyle in the eye. He smiled as wide as he could, held it for as long as he could, and licked his chapped lips to say, "My name is-s Frank Hardy. And I'm feeling p-peachy, thank you ver-ry much for asking." And then the pain overtook him again, rearranging his smile into something between a smirk and a wince. As he said the words, Doyle's face metamorphosed from one filled with parental concern, to one stony and frustrated.

"The drug is supposed to put you into a suggestive haze. I do not understand why it refuses to work with you," Doyle muttered through clenched teeth, punctuating his words by tightening his grip on Frank's knee until the boy almost cried out in agony.

Frank struggled to lean forward to pry the man's hand off of his suffering joint, but Doyle sped up the process and yanked the boy forward by his shirt collar.

"Why are you fighting it? Why do you insist on—"

"B-because this is wr-wrong!" Frank hissed, his hands gripping the ones bunching his shirt. "And you kn-know it!"

Doyle's only reaction was to shake the boy.

"It is not fair. Not right! Why did it work on all those other children…? Why can't I have my son back? I've given others—"

"No, y-you took b-before you ever g-gave!" The two occupants of the room might as well have been one, almost nose to nose, and staring each other so far into the center of their eyes that Frank's nausea was starting to overwhelm even the aches and bruises that were already plaguing him. Fighting the threatening bile in his throat, he went on. "Y-you t-take ch-children f-from their h-homes! F-from their f-families! Y-you drug them, f-feed them n-new l-lives, a-a-nd t-then ha-hand them-m over t-to c-complete s-st-strangers. All f-for m-money." Frank resisted giving in to the urge to vomit all over the man that continued to hold him, but the look in Doyle's eyes…

A moment later revealed Doyle was thinking not too far along the same lines Frank was. He growled as he thrust the boy backward. Frank managed to keep himself from slamming into the headboard, but couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise.

"Your eyes," Doyle said, standing up quickly. Frank eyed him guardedly, rubbing his neck slowly where the shirt had been tightened.

"They're the wrong color."

To anyone's ears, the words formed a statement. To Frank's, they were as ominous as the renewed gleam of determination in the man's eyes.

* * *

- Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe) -

Joe rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He was in the living room dressed for sleep. He vaguely remembered showering the night before as his father suggested, but he could not recall ever making his way back downstairs—he'd almost fallen asleep in the shower, and was surprised he had had the energy to climb stairs. Joe heard bustling and clinking in the kitchen and went to investigate. Sure enough, Fenton was preparing some coffee and hot chocolate.

"Good evening," Fenton said softly, seeing his son trying to blink away lingering lures of sleep. Joe strained as he eyed the clock, then let out a low whistle.

"Wow, did I just…?"

"Yeah, you did. Slept almost an entire day straight, albeit somewhat restlessly," Fenton told him. "I'm very glad for it, anyhow, God knows you needed the break. Plus it'll help you remember things better."

The words had Joe stiffen and he very slowly curled his hand around the mug his father handed him.

"Yeah, I think it did," he answered quietly. "I was afraid I'd forget something…"

Fenton had debated probing and prodding his son about the issue of "forgetting" all night and decided it'd be better to let Joe come out with in on his own.

"So what happened that night after we had our argument…"

Joe told him how he crept into his brother's room and how they had both snuck out of the house from there, but as he spoke of the events after they arrived at Doyle's residence, he would pause several times with a disconcerted look on his face before continuing.

"It's okay, Joe. Take your time," Fenton said gently, rubbing Joe's shoulder comfortingly. Joe's frustration only spiked as he shrugged his father off and stood up abruptly, shaking his head furiously.

"No, we don't have time. Frank! He doesn't have time! We need to find him, and I can't remember everything that happened that night," Joe growled. "Ever since that house, ever since—" He stopped, seeing the hurt look that his father was trying, and failing, to hide.

"I'm sorry, dad…" he said softly, sitting down again. "I just… I can't let myself be coddled right now. Not with Frank missing. Not with what I had been living as…"

"Joe, let's back up a bit. What happened when you got to the house?"

"That's the thing, I don't really remember much," Joe sighed frustratingly. "I remember seeing the police car stationed across the street from the house. I remember it was cold out and wishing I'd worn an extra layer." He shivered involuntarily at the memory. "I remember Frank… No. Wait. The police car! It was empty!

"We moved to check it out, and next thing I knew we were talking to Doyle."

"And what did he say?"

"I can't remember all the details, gah! This is so frustrating!" Joe wanted to slam his fist into something.

"Son, what happened that you _can_ remember?"

"…Doyle laughing. I remember that as clearly as I see you right now. He was laughing at us because… he saw Frank and… I think I remember him saying he expected us but he didn't expect—Frank, that doesn't make any sense. I don't think—"

"Trust your gut, Joe, your feeling. I want you to concentrate hard on that night, will it back to you, replay it in your mind's eye… slowly…"

_Eighteen days ago_

"_Where are the police?" Joe mused in a whisper as his brother peered further into the gloom of the police car. Frank shook his head in response._

"_Not here," he replied. Joe rolled his eyes impatiently; trust Frank to state the obvious._

"_Okay, so where are they?" he repeated._

"_Maybe they saw something that warranted entering the house? Looking around? Coffee break?"_

"_Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?"_

"_Alright, so I'm speculating a little, but its way past my work hours, not to mention my bedtime—so sue me!" hissed Frank._

_Joe knew there was no arguing with Frank when he was cranky so he quickly made to focus his brother's ire elsewhere._

"_Why don't we check the house?" Immediately after saying the words, Joe was wishing he could take it back._

"_Seriously? I thought we'd agreed we'd only '_observe._'" His brother said tiredly, sighing and running a hand through his hair._

"_Yeah, but extenuating circumstances call for—"_

"_Boy do you push the right buttons… _every_ time, Joe, _every_ time."_

"_I'm just saying—"_

"_No, we're leaving. We'll call the station, ask for them to send another car around to check, but we, are, leaving." With that, Frank pushed himself up and away from the car. Joe followed suit, intent on keeping quiet for the rest of the night, but then froze when the sound of laughter and footsteps reached him._

"_Joe!" Hearing the tone of voice his brother was using, Joe immediately stepped up next to him as several figures emerged from the surrounding night._

"_Stay close," Frank whispered. Joe couldn't help a small part of him rebel at his brother's sudden protectiveness; he could certainly take care of himself._

"_Well, well, well…" one of the figures stepped forward, ahead of the others, obviously in charge. When he was close enough for the brothers to scan his facial features in the moonlight, they recognized him instantly._

"_Doyle." Joe said simply._

"_Hardy Boys. Figured you would come and wrap up this little case on your own," said the man in front of them. Joe almost missed the barely perceptible nod the man gave the others surrounding the brothers. It was only Frank's quick shove that saved Joe from being immediately bear hugged by the thug behind him. Joe could see well enough in the moonlight to fight off his attackers for a while, but he knew he could never hold up for long—not with this many and certainly not all at once. For the most part the men weren't trying to hurt him, only restrain him, and he took full advantage of their caution. Shadows came at him at all sides, sometimes grabbing him around the waist, but he threw them off with some effort, and was managing the dodge the slower and more burly of the silhouettes. The fight demanded his full attention. He hadn't even had the chance to spare his brother a glance, when a buzzing sound caught his attention. Whirling to face the direction he knew his brother to be in, he almost screamed at the sight that met him. Frank was sprawled on his stomach and he was convulsing. It only took Joe seconds to trace the culprit; a man, whose general shape was all he could make out, held something in the shape of a gun, and pointed it out toward his brother._

"_Frank—" but before Joe could take more than two steps in Frank's direction, someone had grabbed him from behind, quickly followed by another pair of hands, and then another, until Joe was anchored in place. "Frank!" Desperately, he willed his brother to get up. Then it struck him. Convulsing. Gun. Taser! Addressing the man, Joe screamed angrily, "Stop it! You're killing him!" Frank stopped flailing about on the ground when the man finally lowered the weapon. Another figure came forward, the leader, Doyle. He knelt down and slowly turned the downed Hardy on his side. As Joe struggled, he strained as well to catch some of what was whispered a few feet away from him, but to no avail. The tones were hushed, but he could tell they were also surprised and purposeful._

_At last, Doyle stood up and spoke louder. "Make sure they don't know where the other is. I want them as far apart from each other as you can put them. It's best they be dealt with separately. And put Tom on this one."_

_He prodded Frank's prone body with his foot, and Joe wanted to wring the man's neck right then and there._

"_Let me go! Frank! Come on, buddy, wake up," Joe yelled. He felt the hands pulling at him, dragging him backward, away from— "FRANK!"_

_There was no response. Only the sound of bruised men bending forward to pick the unconscious youth up off the ground._

"…I remember thinking, at least we put up a good fight. But that was it. That was the one positive thing I could think of. We didn't have back up. We wouldn't have each other. We couldn't expect you to be after us until morning, by which time we would be too far away, not to mention in separate locations…"

"I was so down, Dad, I can't even explain it. Its no wonder it didn't take much to brainwash me, or whatever it was they did—condition me to think that I was James, who played football and was a complete klutz too. Who had parents who had fake smiles, who tried not to wince when they called me honey, who would lock me in every night, who lied about the injections they'd give—God, Dad, just thinking about what I've been through—what the hell could they be putting Frank through?"

"I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm so, so, sorry," Joe collapsed into his father's embrace, both emotionally spent and mentally exhausted.

"We _will_ get back what's ours, Joe," said Fenton through lips tightened, speaking for the first time ssince Joe took his advice in remembering what happened. "We'll bring him back to us, and they will pay for ever thinking they could mess with my family and get away with it."

* * *

**A/N: I know it's slow going, detailed, and most chapters are very filler-chapter-ish, but this story **_**does**_** have an ending. Thank you for the support (all you alert-ers and favorit-ers) especially my reviewers: bhar, ForeveraWriteratHeart, Mara jade chase!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: It has been brought to my attention that it's difficult sometimes to read this story with how I've paragraphed it, so apologies! It reads really well in Word, and FF's editor only goes so far-SO if you really have trouble with reading, I think maybe changing the settings in the right hand corner to 3/4 or 1/2 display will help? **

**Enjoy!  
**

**Oh, and warning, some (not a lot) crude language ahead.  
**

* * *

**Elsewhere (Some Government Agency)**

"Excuse me, Dale?"

Dale Matthews shifted the file, lowered his legs, and sat up in one movement. A woman was peering in through the doorway. "Yes, Fran?"

"Director would like a word," Francis told him.

"Okay, thanks, be right—" was as far as his reply went as she hurried off. "There." He finished with a slight frown. He arrived at the director's office within the minute, and knocked. Two quick knocks, any more and Matthews knew Director Stinson would likely be yelling them away. As it were, a muffled voice invited him in.

"Agent Matthews," Stinson gestured at one of the seats in front of his desk upon seeing the agent.

"Sir," Matthews nodded, and took a seat. "You wanted to see me."

"Yes, about an old case, one of yours."

Matthews nodded again, all the while wondering where this conversation might be headed. He'd been an agent for a decade or so now, and it wasn't unusual for old cases to be reexamined, and then reexamined. So far, this was the first of one of his to ever come up, and it got him comparing his casework to that of the agents he'd had to reexamine. He was quite positive he had nothing to worry about… but still.

"It wasn't officially closed, but they didn't keep you on it either," Stinson was flipping through a file. "Your cover on the case was a Dale Matheson."

Matthews remembered the case all too well. It was one of six that he hadn't managed to close, or forget.

"I remember that case," he said. "Human trafficking. Arthur Doyle. I was sent in to infiltrate the Doyle's inner circle, observe and report, as the family doctor. Until…" Matthews paused.

"The wife and children's accident," Stinson finished for him. Matthews nodded.

"Yes, afterward, Doyle shut me out. Shut everyone out. It was more difficult than ever to get anything on him, so eventually operations decided to dial back the whole thing until he slipped up again. He never returned my calls, and I was needed on another case, so I was reassigned."

"Well, apparently, he's been calling you several times in the past two days," the other man told him. "A little late to be calling back, if you ask me, but he's doing it. The case officer, William Harper, wants to know if you want back in. I told him you're in the middle of something and that you might not—"

"No, it's fine. Yeoman can cover for me," Matthews said quickly. "I've got a chance to close this? Hell if I'm not going to take it." In his mind's eye came pictures of the missing children, the parents' looks of despair as he watched through the one-way mirror, and Doyle's face… the man responsible for it all.

Stinson smiled wryly.

"Thought you might say that," he said, opening a drawer and reaching in. He pulled out a cellphone in an evidence bag, and held it out to Matthews, who took it from him carefully.

"This will put me in contact with him," Matthews, taking out and studying the phone, stated more than asked.

"Yes, it's your old number. From what I've been told, though, I doubt you'll ever have to do the dialing."

"That's fine with me," Matthews said, holding up the phone briefly as he stood to leave. "I can stomach having criminal tyrants on speed dial, but I'd rather crank call my in-laws and suffer Anne's wrath, than have to be the one to initiate a heart-to-heart with one of them."

"Tougher than it sounds," the director nodded knowingly with a small smile, and stood up as well. "Well, best of luck then, agent. And say hello to Anne and the kids for me."

"Thank you, sir." They shook hands, and Matthews left his office with a vibrant air. _This time_, he promised, _this time is it for you, Doyle._

* * *

**Elsewhere (Frank)**

Doyle turned to his men as he stood and stepped away from the bed. Frank wasn't listening to what he told them, busy mulling over Doyle's words. _The wrong color? _He had barely finished the thought when Doyle was gone, and one of the men approached him with a chain.

He twisted to one side instinctively to put distance between him and the man's intentions, but the man simply grabbed Frank's left leg, and pulled. Frank felt the leg of the pants he wore being pulled up to mid-calf, and then something cold clamping over his skin right above the ankle. The man let go of him, and moved away, leaving Frank to take his new accessory.

"Really? Sh-shackles? T-tad out-of-d-date, don't you t-think?" he asked the two men. He sat up straighter, the motion pulling on the chain, and irritating the man who was securing it to something on the floor just beyond the bed. Frank gritted his teeth as the man yanked at the chain from his end sharply, pulling Frank down along the bed. There was a click, and a minute later, the men had gone.

Standing up, Frank walked all the way across the room, his eye on the chain. He walked to the corners and then back to the bed. _Great_, he thought. _Just enough to walk around. Could have been worse._

_ Ah, big brother, why so optimistic? _Joe's voice—impersonating the Joker—rang in his head._ That's usually my job._

Frank laughed softly.

_ Well, in situations like these? It couldn't hurt. Also_, his laughter died as suddenly as it had come. _You're not here._ He tugged at the chain. _Still… and I know I'm terrible for it… sometimes I wish you were. _He stilled and put his face in his hands, swallowing hard. _Please, Joe, wherever you are… please be okay._

* * *

**Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe)**

Joe sat at the kitchen table, a drawing pad in his lap, and a mug of cold coffee in front of him. A quick glance at the clock told him his father would be home soon. Sighing, he lifted the pad for what seemed like the hundredth time. He had been scribbling and writing—_Same thing really when it comes to your handwriting, Joe_-any details he could recall from his kidnapping_._ The blonde sighed again and set the pad onto the table. It had begun earlier that morning, his brother's voice interrupting his thoughts. Joe readily blamed the drugs he was still trying to shake the effects off of, but he couldn't bring himself to really hate the fact. Before he had realized it, he was having conversations with the voice, and it was somewhat pleasant. Pleasant if it weren't for this Frank being a mild exaggeration of the real Frank, and if it would only pick an aspect of his brother's personality and stick to it. Joe decidedly ignored the fact that it was his own subconscious he was putting at fault. _But then I suppose when if in solving things and saving lives, detectives come second to doctors, why not in terrible penmanship?_ Teasing Frank. Joe rolled his eyes, but knew nothing the voice said could annoy him in the slightest. Not now.

"Not helpful," he whispered as he propped the pad up again to look at what he had got so far.

_A house. Blue van. Scar. Fake football. Fake bruises. Hmm. You couldn't get a plate number? An address?_ Detective Frank.

"I wasn't thinking straight. Couldn't," Joe murmured, rubbing an eye.

_But… you can now, right?_ Concerned Frank._ Joey?_ Joe started at that; the nickname wasn't one Frank tossed about lightly, and Joe was pleased that his subconscious got that part right so far.

"Yes, yes, well, better at least," the teen said at last, rubbing the other eye. "Whatever they gave me… it's taking a while to flush it out of my system completely."

_Flush._ Frank's laughter, light and precious, echoed in his mind. It usually took a lot more than a single word to make his brother crack a grin, let alone outright laugh. Joe frowned. Stoned Frank? _Right, like I would ever._ Uptight Frank. _Am not. It's just… flush sounds funny_. Frank was giggling again. Giggling.

"Definitely stoned," Joe said, laughing. _Oh, come on, says the guy who nearly went into cardiac arrest after I told you fart was, in fancier terms… what was it again? Flatus expelled from the anus?_ The voice wasn't laughing, which made sense. The actual Frank had, as usual, been completely serious when he spoke the words, Joe remembered and his laughter quickly intensified.

"Not fair," Joe gasped. "I mean… how can you… be the only person… able… to say… that with a straight face?" He couldn't stop laughing. He tipped far to one side clutching his stomach and before he knew it, he was on the floor, tears inadvertently squeezing out of his eyes.

He didn't know how long it was before he felt hands on his shoulders. He looked up to see a face, distorted from the wetness in his eyes, hovering over him. It took a moment, but Joe knew before his eyes cleared that it was his father leaning over him.

"Joe…" said Fenton, questioning in his tone.

"I… I fell," mumbled Joe hoarsely, wiping his eyes furiously and allowing his father to help him sit up. "I was… I was laughing, see. And then fell laughing so hard that I was crying… Laughing and crying... And then... I don't know."

And then just crying, Joe knew. Worse, he had fallen asleep afterward. He glared at the floor, as if daring it to come into focus. He had wasted time crying himself to sleep. He felt like an idiot.

His father put his arms around him, and Joe leaned into the touch gratefully.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Joe mumbled into his father's shirt.

"Nothing to be sorry about," his father replied, squeezing gently. "Nothing."

* * *

**Elsewhere (Frank)**

Frank turned the baseball that had been sitting on the bedside table over in his hands once… twice… then placed it back once satisfied that his hands were no longer trembling. After Doyle's injections, it usually took him longer to regain proper motor control, but it seemed his body was slowly learning to counteract the drug. He kept his movements out of view of the camera; if Doyle knew he was improving, the maniac would dream up new ways to fix that. It was bad enough wondering what Doyle meant about his eyes. Standing up, he flexed his fingers, swallowed, trying to rid himself of the fast-becoming-constant feeling of impending doom; it clung to him like a shadow and he was tired of it. He needed something to take his mind off things, a distraction. _No, more than that, I need to find a way out of here_. The detective in him nodded in agreement, and suggested searching the room.

He carefully walked to the desk that occupied one corner of the room and let his fingers ran over the scattered papers that covered its surface. Homework dated several years earlier, sketches of airplanes, scribbled notes… he read every scrap that he could find. Many of the sketches had two sets of handwriting: Kenneth's and Doyle's. He eyes flitted over the drawings, fists clenching unconsciously.

_(approx. 24 hours earlier)  
_

_ "We used to sing this song on our drives to your grandparents, remember?" Temples throbbing, vision tilting, Frank could not trust what he was hearing. He could vaguely make out something playing in the background, but it was white noise compared to the pinpricks of pain that interrupted what remained of his consciousness and the blood pulsing in his ears._

_ "Y-y-eah, this is t-t-totally, our s-song," he spat; unaware that his body was automatically tensing for what was inevitable. He heard screaming next, but was too busy trying to uncurl his fingers to realize where it was coming from. Spasms rocked his body, throwing his back against the metal chair enough times to bruise. Doyle only ever touched him with the cattle prod for a second or two, never longer, but… the pain… it made no difference._

_ "Okay, so you're not in the lyrical mood right now, I can tell. You see? And you say that I don't listen to you, much less understand." Trembling, fighting to stay awake, Frank tried to angle his head to look Doyle in the eye, but it seemed the thing had gained an extra hundred pounds. Gritting his teeth, instead he kept his head down and his eyes shut in as defiant a stance that he could muster._

_ "How about we work on our plane for awhile?" The words had Frank throwing his head up in a panic borne of his most recent memory of model plane building with a certain lunatic._

_ "N-n-no. P-please. My h-hands are s-s-still—"_

_ "Now you have no one but yourself to blame for that, _Kenneth_. You should have known better than to put the stabilizer where you did."_

_ "I-I d-did ever-r-rything that y-you asked m-me to!" Frank cried angrily. "I-I d-did everyth-th-thing r-right—Grrraaahhh!" Doyle removed the prod from Frank's right clamped palm and sighed impatiently._

_ "The sooner you learn your manners, the sooner we can stop." There was a _snip_ as the zip tie that bound Frank's right wrist to the chair was cut. Hissing through his teeth, Frank resisted retorting, feeling and ignoring the tear running unbidden down one cheek. A model plane appeared in front of him. Doyle could no better hide the eagerness in his voice than Frank could fake his. "How about we start with something easy, your favorite? Point out the aileron, please, and state its function."_

Frank swallowed audibly, his heart thudding, and put his arm over his eyes quickly.

"Not now," he ground out. He could not afford to get lost in the memory. His hands were shaking again—he slammed his fists on the tabletop.

"Not n-now, n-not _now_," He stilled, bent over the desk, for several long moments until his breathing evened out. He turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. _Who has favorite airplane parts anyway? _Joe's voice again. _It's weird. Like having a favorite body part or something_. Frank grimaced a little, and then smiled wryly. _Okay, don't. Say. A. Word. I heard it as soon as I said it._

"You didn't s-say anything, Joey, I h-heard it in m-my h-head. I think I'm-m losing it in here," Frank muttered under his breath. _So what? You're just going to ignore me now? 'Cause I'm not going anytime soon._ He straightened as a thought came to him and he glanced behind him at the plane models hanging from the ceiling again.

"Well, those certainly d-didn't build themselves. Kenneth m-must'v-ve kept the tools here som-m-ewhere…"_ Wow. You really are ignoring me now?_

He moved to open the drawers of the desk and hit jackpot. The drawer was full of evidence of the father-son hobby. _Ooh, arts and crafts? _"Soldering iron, g-glue, tape, s-scissors, spare model parts-s…" He set a few of the items on the desktop, letting himself hope a little as he eyed them. _Doyle just made his second mistake, huh_, Joe's voice said smugly. _It's almost as if he _wants_ you to escape._ Satisfied, Frank shut the drawers.

"Yeah, I'm-m almost insulted he didn't take m-more precautions," Frank murmured, and then heard the scrape of metal on the floor and eyed the chain that secured him. _You were saying? _"Never mind_._" He sighed, and looked at his reflection in the computer monitor that sat on the desktop with the papers. _You look like crap._ Frank's eyes traced the wires that lead from the monitor. They disappeared behind the desk and under, so he knelt…and smiled upon seeing the computer's tower hiding beneath the tabletop. _Oh, wow. Major nerd alert._

He stood up, and walked slowly to the door. _Got the hots for Dell Gx240, big brother? _He knew before trying the knob that it would be locked, and a moment later confirmed it anyway. _Well, I suppose I can't blame you. _Suppressing a sigh, he stole a glance at the camera in the corner, its red light blinking patiently, mockingly, at him. _She's steadfast, quick thinking, and down-to-earth. _Frank looked down and eyed the metal that gripped him. _Only downside I can think of is… she'll never be wrong. Anything and everything that goes wrong between the two of you, will be 99% your fault. User error—_

"Got it, Joe, s-she's out of my league," he muttered under his breath. "Hope s-she forgives me for what I'm-m about to do."

The voice in his head knew all too well what he was about to do. _Again, wow. And you tell me _I _take rejection badly._

* * *

**Hardy Residence (Fenton, Joe)**

There was the sound of a throat clearing when Joe and Fenton pulled apart. Joe turned his head to see a man and a woman standing in the kitchen doorway. Any other time he might've been embarrassed at the thought of some strangers seeing him… like that… but he was too tired to care.

"Joe, this is Agent Harper and Agent Casey," Fenton explained as he helped his son to his feet. "They're here about the case." Joe didn't catch the edge in his father's voice right away.

"I'm sorry," Harper addressed Joe. He didn't look too apologetic, and Joe was tempted to ask him what for… Frank missing? Walking in on the sobbing mess that was Joe Hardy? "I don't mean to sound insensitive, but we should probably get started. Your files?"

Fenton nodded, leaving the kitchen with Agent Casey. Joe stiffened with realization and eyed the remaining agent.

"You're not here to help, are you? You're taking over the case," said Joe.

"It was hardly your father's case to begin with," Harper told him. When Joe looked at the agent questioningly, he went on. "We've had an eye on Doyle for several years. It just so happens that one of his projects ended up here, in your city. Local authorities, with your father's help, have uncovered only a fraction of Doyle's crime ring, and seeing as their jurisdiction does not extend past the city limits… It only makes sense that we whose jurisdiction does, save them the trouble of piecing together Doyle's nationwide operation."

"That's… that's not fair," Joe said angrily.

"I don't see how. We have greater resources and years of intelligence on Doyle's entire operation. You've had the local police and a few months to detail—"

" 'A fraction' of it, yeah, I got that. But it doesn't mean we worked any less hard than the," Joe waved his hand at the man, realizing he had no idea which agency exactly he worked for. Then he realized he didn't care. "Than you people! You can't just take over—" Before Joe could get worked up any further, Fenton and Agent Casey walked back into the room, the former carrying a box that Joe knew was full of sheet after sheet of hard-earned intel. Intel that Harper seemed just as inclined to dismiss as fractional as he was intent to get his hands on them. Joe shook his head in frustration.

"Son," Fenton said somewhat tiredly, watching Casey set the box on the table. "Just sit down a moment." After a pause, Joe complied, not taking his eyes off of Harper. "No point in arguing over who gets the case or not."

"No argument. It's ours," stated Harper.

"And you have our word," Agent Casey said, speaking for the first time. She was looking at Joe and Fenton. "We will do everything we can to ensure Frank's safety in all this. Agent Harper and I will personally see to it his wellbeing is a priority." Joe's instincts told him she was sincere, but he couldn't help himself—he was too worked up.

"Right," Joe snorted. "Just peachy. My brother's chances either just shot through the roof or through the basement. And if the likes of him are running the show, you won't blame me for assuming the latter."

"This is exactly why you should not be anywhere near this case, you're too close to it, _emotionally_. You can't be trusted to make the decisions regarding the case," said Harper, pointedly ignoring the personal attack.

"And you can? With the investigation in your hands, my son becomes collateral damage! A second priority!" Fenton burst out angrily. It caught Joe by surprise, and the two agents even more so; the detective was renowned for his calm and level-headedness, not… this.

"Like you said, detective, there is no argument—"

"Well, that was before I realized you were going to cut us out of it," Fenton growled. "I'm not going to sit back and let you—"

"Dad," Joe interrupted, and stood. Frank's absence was affecting Fenton worse than he let on—not that Joe was too surprised. His father and brother were alike that way; burying the feelings until a more appropriate time allowed them some emotional hashing out, but sometimes the right pressure in the right places… and that shell people call calm and level-headedness would crack enough to let a little bit of that mess of emotion through. And boy was Harper hitting all the right places.

"Butting heads is getting us nowhere closer to finding Frank… or Doyle." He added, with a glance at Harper and Casey. "I don't see why we can't work together on this one. Or at least _not_ cut my father and me out completely. We all know we deserve that much at the very least." He looked from one man to the other, to Casey, but could see that they had seen this coming from the start and couldn't help but try to take the reins on the investigation anyway.

"Fine." "Alright." "Okay."

"Okay, good," Joe said, vaguely wondering how he became mediator considering he had been ready to take on Harper a few minutes earlier. "It'll take you hours to go through all the police files in that box, and even longer to go through my dad's notes—they look like doctor's prescriptions written backwards." Joe smiled, remembering the voice's words. Casey echoed the sentiment, Harper frowned, and Fenton's scowl softened considerably. "We can tell you everything you need to know right now… if you tell us what you've got on the case so far."

"Joe, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but they've already got us at a disadvantage. They already know what we do," Fenton said in a low voice. He turned to Harper. "You must've kept tabs on this investigation from the start, and we've lured Doyle out just enough for you to swoop in and—"

"Alright, alright, home rules then," Joe intervened firmly, seeing the veins in his father's neck strain and knowing all too well what that ensued. "You came here, agents, you came to us. Why don't you fill us in first?" He crossed his arms expectantly.

"Well…" Casey looked to Harper to begin.

"Well," the man said stonily. "I have a man on the inside. Well, at least he's _going_ to be on the inside… again. Four years ago he was working undercover, and by the time the whole case fell through, had integrated himself into one of Doyle's innermost social circles. He's had no contact with Doyle, not since the wife and children's deaths. But beginning two days ago, several calls were placed repeatedly to his cover id's number from the case. All numbers previously and currently used by agents are monitored and they are to use these phones strictly for their covers. Our man ever only had one regular incoming caller the entire time he was undercover."

"Doyle," Joe voiced, and Harper confirmed this with a nod.

"We've traced the calls' source, we have an address, and we're waiting on our man—"

_An address? _Joe was about to explode; _why the hell hadn't he mentioned this earlier—?_ But his father beat him to it. More than beat him to it. Before he could voice his anger, Joe watched the blur that was his father lunge at the agent.

* * *

**Elsewhere (Frank)**

Frank made a point to pause at each model plane that hung from the ceiling in case they were watching him. He touched them, poked them gently so that they swung around the little circles afforded to them by their ceiling tether. He finally reached the one closest to the camera and set that one swinging about particularly fast and hard. As expected, the string snapped from the strain and the plane fell. Frank caught it quickly.

"Whoops," he voiced. He reached upward, keeping his movements wide to keep them from becoming suspicious, but not too obvious that they figure out what he had done hadn't been accidental. His planned to tie the plane back in place, but in slightly different position, one that would block the camera's line of sight to the desk. He did this now as quickly as he could, breathing hard from the growing ache in his arms. At last, the plane was in place.

Not giving the camera a second glance, Frank moved quickly to the desk. He knelt and dragged the dust-covered machine out from under the desk. Grabbing one of the screwdrivers he had earlier discovered, he made quick work of the screws that kept the tower's side lidded. He pulled off the cover and grabbed another tool to free the DVD drive from where it was docked. _Sorry, girl_, he thought with a sad smile. Joe's voice had not returned after he had taken a nap, and it left him feeling lonelier than ever. Once unscrewed, the drive was quickly eased out and then dropped gently into one of the drawers. Frank nearly jumped at the sound of murmuring behind the door. _Wow. That was sooner than I expected._ Trying to keep his hands steady, he quickly re-attached the lid and replaced the machine. He grabbed the plane that he had earlier set on the desktop and hunched over it with the tools, just as the door was unlocked and was pulled open to reveal one of Doyle's thugs.

There was a pause as the guy took in the scene before him. Frank knew he must've done it right, looking like he was just tinkering with a model plane. The man sneered at him, grunted, and then walked over to the camera mumbling.

"Leave the planes were they are on the ceiling," the man growled as he yanked the model plane from its anchor and tossed it to one side.

"Sorry," Frank offered meekly, but the man was already leaving, Frank's words unheeded. Frank turned back to face the desk, and with his back to the camera, smiled.

* * *

**Elsewhere (Doyle)**

Arthur Doyle sat, staring steadily at the phone that sat on the end table next to the couch. Beside it sat a calling card that he had a few days ago pulled out of his wallet. He sighed and pressed the redial button. _Maybe… maybe the call will go through this time. _Ringing in his ear indicated that it had. He couldn't help but smile excitedly.

"Hello, Matheson speaking," answered a deep, cultured voice.

"Dale, how are you? This is Arthur. Arthur Doyle."

"Arthur?" There was a pause. "I'm surprised to hear from you. It's… it's been awhile."

"Yes, it has been, hasn't it?" Doyle cleared his throat, unpleasant memories of the months following the accident that robbed him of his family rushed to the forefront of mind. He shrugged off a shiver. "I was wondering if you would be willing to make a house call today?" His tone suggested his words were more a demand than a request, but if the doctor noticed, he made no mention of it.

"Well, I have a pretty full schedule today, but I'm sure I can squeeze you in somewhere… How is five tonight?"

"I'm afraid this is rather urgent…"

"Four, then?"

"Dale, you don't understand—"

"Arthur, I was your family doctor and while I realize that you took your family's passing hard, and that you need someone to talk to, this is entirely out of my field; there are several properly qualified professionals who know how to deal—"

"I need _you_ to just… come. Over. Please." All pretension of mere friendship with one another suddenly fell, giving way to a deeper connection between the men on both ends of the line. This pause was longer than the first.

"I tried to help you. We got nowhere, and you were an even bigger mess afterwards. You stopped returning my calls. I couldn't help you then, how can I now?"

"You were my friend before you were ever our family's doctor, Dale. As a favor to me, please?"

"After four years… Well, what sort of favor exactly?"

"There's someone here I need you to look over. I need you to… I…"

"Arthur?"

Pause.

"Hello?"

"It's Kenneth—Dale. Kenneth! I found him, and I need you to take a look at him. His eyes aren't right. I'm going to try to fix it, but I'm not sure if it will be enough. Please, come here, and help me to fix him, Dale. I need your help, Dale, please."

Pause. The hysteria that had exploded from Arthur Doyle seemed to reverberate almost physically through the lines and to the other man.

"Dale, please, it's the only way..."

Pause. Heavy breathing. Swallowing.

"Arthur… what the are you talking about? You're in denial? Still? Kenneth's gone—No. No, that's it. You know what, I _will_ come over and _we_ are going to settle this once and for all."

"Yes, Dale, please come," Doyle's voice suddenly light and almost excited—desperately so.

More exasperated than accommodating, the doctor sighed. "I'm coming, Arthur. Now, the address?"

* * *

**A/N: It's been forever, I know. I would go on about how I never have enough time, but I lie! I do! It's inspiration I never have for long enough to write things in one sitting. But there you go, after several edits, and re-edits, and re-re-edits!**

**(So, the agency Matthews, Harper, and Casey work for is called Some Government Agency right? —Yes. Its SGA for short and—Haha, no, not really. I just didn't want to name a real one, and stress about the technicalities, hee hee. Literary liberties, yay! And while we're at it, plausible deniability, yay! If you like, just fill that in with whatever secret government whatnot you prefer.)  
**

**So to recap!**

**(This is the actually the outline I had written out for this portion of the story, so not exactly a recap but…)**

**Intro Matthews/Matheson,  
Frank is going to try and MacGyver his way out,  
Joe thinks the word _flatus_ is hil-a-rious,  
Evil Doyle is evil (flashback)  
Frank suffers Joe's nerd-computer-love puns,  
Agent Harper (big) butts in,  
(inside man, address, etc.)  
Fenton gets _violently _angry,  
Doyle calls for help, somewhat desperate,  
Agent Matthews/Dr. Matheson plays hard to get over the phone  
**

**And even with outlines as _great_ as this, I continue to wonder why I cannot write consistently and in sequence…?  
**

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So I've opted for shorter chapters/uploads and, consequently, more frequent updates.  
**

**Hope you like...!  
**

* * *

**Elsewhere (Frank)**

Frank clasped his hands together for a moment for getting back to work. The trembling had started close to an hour ago, and he couldn't seem to stop it. And if that wasn't enough of a distraction, he could feel himself sweating more than was appropriate at room temperature. Frank drove the discomfort to the back of his mind with some effort.

For the past few hours, with the drive in his lap and a soldering iron in one hand, he had been maneuvering wire after wire, soldering here and there, screwing and unscrewing, until—_presto!_ Frank thought smugly. He set the tools down, and gave his creation a quick look over, careful to keep it out of the camera's view. Satisfied everything was in order, he flicked the power switch. From the almost square metal box that he had taken from the computer tower, a thin, bright red beam shot out. Frank had the device turned toward the wall, and almost immediately after turning it on, the spot on the wall it was concentrated on had started to blacken. Seeing tendrils of smoke rise up from the spot, Frank quickly shut it off, nodding to himself grimly. _Now, for the real test…_ He eyed the metal around his ankle.

An hour later and Frank had successfully cut through one of the links in the chain that secured him to the floor. He was tempted to run about, savor the small victory, but thought better of it. _Not out of the house yet,_ he reminded himself.

He moved to work on cutting through another link further down the chain; it wouldn't hurt to arm himself if he was going to fight his way out. It wasn't the best of escape plans, but he had to work with what he had, namely, nothing. He had no knowledge of the house's layout or the number of men that were here, but if he was quick, that may be enough to get out.

The sound of voices outside his door, however, told him he was off to a very slow start. If they catch him now with the links severed and the device, his escape would be over before it really began._ Okay then._ Quickly gearing into offense, Frank put the device aside and stationed himself by the door.

Before the door had completed its swing open, Frank was springing into action. The first man through he awarded with a blow to the back of the neck that threw him forwards and out for the count. The man's partner, seeing his downed colleague, charged at Frank. Frank used the man's momentum and simply sidestepped at the last moment, simultaneously shoving the charging body toward the dresser. He didn't wait to see the man collide with said furniture, seeing a third man run into the room. Before the man could get fully take in the chaos, Frank charged him. The two crashed back out into the hall, with Frank straddling the man's chest. The man, who was heavier and taller than Frank, was quick to recover. He shoved the youth off, pinned him to the ground, and raised a fist, intending to knock Frank out. The punch came and Frank blocked instinctively. The man drew back for another blow. Again Frank blocked with his forearm, but then quickly wrapped his arm around the man's, pinning the his left arm to Frank's right side. The man barely had a moment to tug at the arm in surprise when, with a grunt, Frank rolled his body hard to the right, and the man's weight followed. Their sideways momentum favored the Hardy, who was now sprawled on top of his opponent. Without hesitation, Frank pulled one knee up sharply. The man screamed, and Frank rolled off, hardly sympathetic when he saw the man clutching his groin. He then knelt and with a quick palm strike, put the man out of his misery.

Breathing hard, Frank hunched over to recover. The trembling in his hands had worsened. Straightening, he surveyed what lay immediately outside his bedroom prison. He was standing in what he decided must be the upstairs hallway of a house. Further along it, to his right there was a banister that ended with a flight of stairs going down. He crept along the wall to where it ended and the banister began, and peered over the rail. No one in sight. The stairs led straight down to the foyer and—there. The front door. Frank could hardly believe his luck; so his only real obstacle had been the shackle and three thugs? _Doyle needs a refresher on Kidnapping 101,_ he thought, not too unhappily.

"Leaving are we?" a voice came from one of the foyer doorways. _Yup. Great job jinxing things, Hardy_. Frank didn't turn around immediately, already his body was readying itself; he would make a run for the front door. _All or nothing_.

He was about to act on this when he heard a buzzing to his left and he felt nearly all strength in his knees leave. Quickly, he put an arm out against the wall to keep himself from toppling senselessly to his knees. The cackling sound came again and Frank shut his eyes, trying to will away the rapidly resurfacing memories of his sessions with Doyle—not as conducive as they were conductive Doyle had joked once. Frank hadn't found it very funny then, and it wasn't funny now—especially not with his heart threatening to burrow out of his stomach.

He wrapped one arm around his torso to calm himself and, pushed away from the wall with his free arm, and kept it raised as he turned to face the new arrivals.

"Smart choice," said the sickeningly familiar voice, one that usually either came before or followed the cackling, sizzling, and stinging. That and the smell of burning… "Though, admittedly, it would have been much better if you'd been smart _before_ making all this fuss, hmm?"

"What can I say," Frank replied, once certain he could keep his voice steady. "I'm a fussy guy." He eyed the men holding the taser guns warily, wishing they had been guns instead and purposefully ignoring the irony.

Doyle laughed. Actually laughed. "You," he said after following Frank's gaze. "Put it away, you're only scaring him. He's not going anywhere."

"Screw you, Doyle," Frank muttered, but couldn't help but be relieved a little as he watched the taser-wielding thugs oblige Doyle. "And seriously, either 'zap' is the new 'bang' in _Crimes Illustrated_ or your electro/shock/zap-everything-that-moves fetish is very, _very_ contagious." _Oh, little brother, if you could only hear me now, _he thought to himself. _Attempting to laugh in the face of this... whatever this is._

There was indeed laughter, but Doyle's. Frank felt himself tensing.

"As curious as I am as to how you got that," Doyle gazed pointedly at the small length of chain still attached to Frank's right ankle. "done, Dr. Matheson will be here soon to see you. But first..."

_Dr. Matheson? To see me? What-?_

Doyle gestured toward him again, and it frustrated Frank how little effort it seemed it took for the man to make his life hell. _Does Doyle_ ever_ have to say anything?_ Frank thought as he was grabbed from behind, arms looping around his, pinning them to his sides. The movement had caught him off guard for a moment. He jerked his head back in an effort to head butt the man's face, but the man moved with motion and only tightened his hold on the youth. Frank grunted angrily and changed tactic. He leaned forward slightly, quickly moved his right leg back and around the man's legs so that his right thigh was level with backs of the man's knees, and then stood up abruptly. The man's eyes widened in surprise even as he fell backward over Frank's right leg, his own legs flying up to catch one of the other men in the chin.

Frank raised his fists and eyed the circle of men surrounding him, ready for a fight. The men didn't move immediately, nor did they plan to.

He was vaguely aware of someone's laughter, unfailingly familiar and nauseating, somewhere beyond the wall of muscle that seemed to have closed further in on him. He was caught by surprise again when firm hands clamped around his jaw, around his head, holding him steady. Then the pull forward.

He tried to latch onto his anger, turn it into some sort of adrenaline boost, but was too tired. And a little too panicked, if he were to be honest, meeting a solid body every which way that he tried to twist. The pulling was insistent and felt like it went on longer than the few seconds it took to drag him to kneel in front of Doyle.

Frank's head was angled upward to face his 'father.'

"You know," Doyle began. "I'm almost glad that you tried… tried to runaway, that is. I was having trouble, you see. I have spent the past hours trying to justify what I'm about to do to you. At first, I thought that maybe that would be going too far, but now? You've just proven to me how much you need this."

Even if he were able to, Frank was unsure know how to respond. Doyle's hands moved toward his face, and he noticed he held something in one of them.

_Shit._ Frank shut his eyes, and renewed his struggles. Suddenly, it all made sense. Doyle was going to… he was going to… "Doyle, please, _don't_. Please, stop." He tried to say, but the words were grunts and groans as far as the vices that held his head in place were concerned.

"I… I don't enjoy this you know…" Doyle said quietly. "I could have one of my men do this for me, but they won't be as gentle. So please open your eyes. I'll be quick, I promise."

Frank refused and Doyle was struggling to maintain his calm.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you insist on doing things the hard way," Doyle said with a small sigh.

_Why hasn't he come? Why haven't they come? Why hasn't _anyone_ come? _The question was drilling itself a new home in Frank's head. _Dad, Joe… I need you. I really, really need you. Right. Now. I don't know if I can do this. I don't know. I don't... I don't think... I just… I need you, Dad. PLEASE!_ The mental plea was suddenly a cacophony as fingers dug themselves, pressed themselves, against, into his eyes and forced his eyelids open. He gasped as the angle between the back of his head and spine shrank dramatically as his head was pulled back even further.

"Dad, please," The plea came out garbled to Frank's ears, but Doyle stopped and looked at him in surprise, thinking Frank had addressed him.

"I'm sorry, my boy. This has to be done…" Doyle breathed as he slowly pressed down on the spray. "It has to be this way... to make you right again."

Frank tugged and jerked and pulled even as the hissing and wetness invaded his senses.

And heartbeats later, through clenched teeth, Frank screamed.

* * *

**(Doyle)**

"Arthur," nodded Agent Matthews in the manner of his present cover, Dr. Matthews. He and Doyle shook hands in greeting. Doyle beckoned him inside and asked him to follow.

"Arthur, I came here to talk," the agent began slowly, paying little heed to the turns they were making through the manor.

"I know, Dale, but that's not the reason I called you here."

"Look, you need help."

Doyle abruptly turned on his heel to face the man, the beginnings of a snarl forming on his face.

"No, _you_ look. I do need help, yes, but not the kind that you think. I need _your_ help, Dale. Just bear with me here, I need you."

"For what? What exactly?"

"Follow me."

Matthews forced himself quiet until the next time Doyle stopped. They had gone down a few flights of stairs at some point in their trek and by the time they had stopped in a dimly lit corridor that welcomed them with a great deal of flickering and an eerie chill, Matthews was in loathe to admit he was curious about what Doyle had to show him.

"Here we are," Doyle muttered under his breath before fully facing Matthews with one of the gravest expression the agent had ever seen him wear. Not since his family…

"First, you have to promise me something, Dale," he said solemnly. "You have to promise me that you won't tell anyone of what has and or will happen behind this door."

"But I don't even know—"

"I need to know I can trust you not to tell, old friend."

"You know what, fine. Fine. I won't tell anyone. I promise. Need that in writing or do I get a friendly pass?"

"No, it doesn't work like that, but so long as I have your word," Doyle said with a small smile, missing the jibe. He turned back to the door, pulled out a key, and unlocked it. He swung the door open and gestured Matthews in.

Matthews stepped into the room and squinted into the gloom at the figure huddled against one wall of the room. He heard a switch flicked on behind him, and heard—rather than really saw—the lights comply. In the next instant, Matthews regretted not taking his eyes off of the figure. He felt it before he could think it; the shock sending his chest into a thudding frenzy.

"Doyle, what the hell—?"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, yes, you can make a laser powerful enough to burn skin and paper using a DVD burner's laser diode—I looked it up ^_^ And while there was no mention of it being powerful enough to cut through metal (and it isn't, haha), I took the liberty of letting it be that and oversimplified the whole process—if only to give poor Frank a break.**

**Had my doubts about this one... Thought I could have written the laser part more believably, and the spraying Frank's eyes to be more climatic.  
**


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